A Tale of Two Cities

by Charles Dickens

And yet
there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate,
a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to
maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced
this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar
hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms.
Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again,
and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.

Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what
they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to
be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles,
the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my
father's house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving
peasants! No; the great magician who majestically works out the
appointed order of the Creator, never reverses his transformations.
"If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God," say the
seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, "then remain so!
But, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration, then resume
thy former aspect!" Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.

As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough
up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges
of faces are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go
steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses
to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people,
and in some the occupation of the hands is not so much as suspended,
while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here and there,
the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his finger,
with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised exponent,
to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday,
and who there the day before.

Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all
things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with
a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with
drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so
heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances
as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their
eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together.
Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so
shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to
dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to
the pity of the people.

There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,
and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked
some question. It would seem to be always the same question, for,
it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart.
The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it
with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he;
he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down,
to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart,
and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him,
and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the long street
of St. Honore, cries are raised against him.